


Guilty

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Belts, Dom Tarkin, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it's Tarkin and Krennic, In it's own twisted way, M/M, Spanking, Sub Krennic, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Failure.That's what Orson Krennic is now that he let himself be set back so far. But Orson needs a little more than just a little heartwarming praise to get him back on the right track, and Tarkin is the perfect man to give it to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For White_Rainbow, who I most sincerely hope enjoys, and who I have to thank for indirectly getting me completely and utterly demolished by Tarkrennic.

Krennic felt it again.

And alongside that feeling, he felt pain and the aftershock of failure. He let Galen Erso slip from his grasp. His _lover._ And in doing so, he found himself set back so far in his work, that he positively resonated with the hurt that came with defeat.

But the feeling...he couldn't quite place it.

He felt it whenever Tarkin stood around, his lips forever thinned in disapproval and face twisted in displeasure. Krennic felt like a child beside the Grand Moff. He felt beyond insignificant.

Krennic leaned forwards, staring out the large window on the bridge of the Executrix while he heard the slight shuffle of cloth as Tarkin shifted his position for perhaps the first time in hours. He briefly reflected on his grudging admiration for Tarkin's control over _everything_ , whether it be his own emotions or the emotions of others. Krennic's presence was very much widespread and noticeable, but even so, it didn't ring the same command for silence and diligence Tarkin's simple, olive green uniform could. He broke his thoughts and tried to re-concentrate on the task at hand.

Krennic's thoughts, however, were not of the Executrix and it's excursion as they should have been. It wasn't even placed on the Death Star in which he confided all his time and attention. He just felt the shame of losing, and the sudden desire to be relieved of the shame. He glanced sideways at Tarkin, who didn't even bother to notice him. Krennic hissed softly, his impatience and injury clear on his chiseled face.

_Guilt._

Guilt, Krennic decided, was what he felt. Galen's smile never quite left him, and now was no different. But, despite how much Krennic longed for Galen's touch again, just once more, he felt the equal need for Tarkin.

Not that the Governor would ever do anything for him.

It took a great deal of coaxing to even have Tarkin's attention on Death Star matters. How could Krennic ever stress his need to Tarkin? How could he ever present it in a way that Tarkin would understand?

But the answer was so crystal clear, Krennic shivered from the blatancy of it.

Tonight, or at least when a few more hours went by, as when they drifted in empty space, time seemed to be non existent, Krennic decided he would let go of it all. The shame, pain, hurt, all of it. He would have Wilhuff Tarkin, or more precisely, Wilhuff Tarkin would have him.

Finally, _finally,_ the Director's shift was over. He retired, as soon as he could, to his quarters to freshen up and look more presentable. There was a brokenness to his pride when he ran the comb through the amber and gray hair.

The...guilt...came back to him when he thought about his plan once more. He was, in a sense, betraying his love. Galen might have left him first, but Krennic's pull towards the shy scientist never seemed to falter. It couldn't even be replaced. Instead, Krennic just widened his heart and made room for another. Perhaps another who didn't even want a place in his small, grudging heart.

Nonetheless, the overwhelming _suffering_ Krennic felt had to end. And Tarkin was the only man he could bend to, as Tarkin was his only superior on the ship. Despite his desire for release, never in the fires of Mustafar would Krennic bend to someone lower than him.

When he paced to Tarkin's private quarters, knowing the older man wasn't on duty, Krennic felt as if his own boots threatened to trip him, slam him away from where he was no doubt going to submit himself. But he wanted this...right? He wanted to be rewarded accordingly to his failure, or more precisely, punished. But even so, he felt himself tremble as he knocked on Tarkin's door. He had never submitted in his life, and now was no different. He saw it as a medicine. A cure for his disease of pain.

"Yes of course, come in," Tarkin drawled from inside his quarters. The door hissed open but the Director didn't immediately enter the threshold. He held back, shaking with fear, watching as Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you, Krennic?"

Krennic shut his mind off. He took one step towards the Grand Moff. And another. And another. He was vaguely aware of the door hissing shut behind him, and as soon as he was near enough to the Grand Moff, Krennic sank to his knees, an open show of submission that made him feel even smaller than he already felt. Tarkin's gaze burned him, but he didn't dare look up.

"Sir," Krennic croaked, the word low and submissive.

"What is it you want," Tarkin returned. But even with the impatient words, Krennic could hear the flush of arousal through the excited way Tarkin uttered those words. It wasn't obvious, only someone with a trained ear for Tarkin's voice itself and someone who was paying full attention would have caught it. Krennic was both. Knowing that, he finally allowed himself to look up and gaze at the spot just past Tarkin's left shoulder.

"I failed," Krennic said mildly, hoping Tarkin would grasp his meaning. Alas, that should never have been a worry for him. Tarkin understood him easily and stared at him through silky eyes. Krennic, however, didn't look at Tarkin at all, and he pretended to be fixated with the book collection sitting behind the Grand Moff. "I let Galen Erso slip and now the Death Star Project is failing. Under my watch."

"And you wish to be punished accordingly."

Krennic let a whole body flinch take him, but he nodded fervently and ever so slowly. Tarkin looked at the creature who presented himself, and Krennic wondered what the Grand Moff was thinking. Of course, pride had to be mixed into whatever jumble of feelings Tarkin had - one of the most arrogant men in the Empire allowed himself to fall to his knees before him, begging to be punished, but when Krennic finally allowed himself to look Tarkin in the eye, there was something else glimmering in those eyes. Whatever it was, a jolt of panic shot through Krennic and his gaze retreated and he returned to staring at the book collection.

"Get out," Tarkin said in his annoyingly clipped speech. Krennic's gaze snapped to Tarkin's face in disbelief. 

"S-sir?" Krennic stuttered, unable to accept what he was hearing. Perhaps this was a test? Did Tarkin want to see how much Krennic really wanted him? Well if it was, Krennic knew he wouldn't fail it. 

"I believe I said 'get out'," Tarkin murmured, letting a soft smirk take his face. His lips thinned just a slight bit more, but a detail as small as that had a catastrophic meaning. Krennic didn't move, knowing full well Tarkin didn't expect him to. 

Didn't expect him to.

_Didn't expect him to._

Krennic's mind shot into motion and he grasped Tarkin's notion. He didn't expect him to move  _at all_ , but a move had to be made. Kicking himself inwardly while his pride burned, Krennic sank to his hands and knees and slowly crawled towards the Grand Moff. Tarkin's face didn't even twitch but Krennic could tell he was pleased. Without having to be prompted, he drew himself over the Grand Moff's lap. 

Tarkin gave a disgusted grunt, but Krennic recognized that this was form. Minutes dragged by with nothing happening, but Krennic didn't dare so much as shift on Tarkin's lap. Minutes they might have been, but seconds they were for Krennic, his anticipation making everything too fast for his liking. Finally, he felt Tarkin move under him as he reached for something, and he jerked as whatever it was, most likely a belt, connected with his ass. 

"Son of a bitch!" Krennic yelled, his mind faltering and fracturing. It was only one swing on his still clothed ass, but yet he felt like he was on fire. Tarkin made a disapproving noise, and slender, cold fingers slid under the top of his waistband, and Tarkin slowly dragged the dress pants down so they pooled at Krennic's feet. 

"Language," Tarkin purred, kneading Krennic's very pale and relatively unmarked ass, only a single red line decorating it. Krennic hissed and struggled, but there was no turning back now; Tarkin wrapped one strong hand around his waist to hold Krennic in place. The Director wondered if he made the wrong decision, and all of a sudden, he had the urge to turn away. To escape. He felt humiliated...but...this was his choice, wasn't it? He convinced himself he wanted it. 

The second lash came down and Krennic screamed, cursing incoherently. Tarkin smirked and watched as Krennic continued to struggle, trying to find a way off of Tarkin's unforgiving lap. 

"Fuck you," he gasped when Tarkin reared back for a third strike. It was easier, so much easier, for Krennic to convince himself that he didn't want this...that Tarkin was forcing him into this. It was easier on his pride. 

"Fuck you, sir," Tarkin corrected, a hint of amusement in his precise language. 

 _He's enjoying this._ That was obvious enough from the hardness pressing into Krennic's stomach, but Krennic underestimated just how much the Grand Moff was loving seeing the Director, basically delivering himself.

Tarkin finally delivered the third strike and Krennic howled with pain, writhing on Tarkin's lap. But it was working. He felt as if he was paying in full for his crimes, his failures. He was  _guilty._ And now he was becoming  _innocent._

Six more strikes were delivered in quick succession, and Krennic cursed himself black and blue throughout all of it. But when the tenth strike landed on his very red and sensitive ass, his offended yelling converted into mindless begging. 

"Please," Krennic begged, not sure exactly what it was he was begging for. His cock had gone hard at some point, and now, it chaffed painfully against Tarkin's leg. Tarkin paused his assault and pushed Krennic to the ground, who, with no balance or control left in him whatsoever, crashed onto the floor, moaning pitifully as his side connected with the cool metal. 

"I'm waiting," Tarkin murmured impatiently. Krennic looked up, weak as ever, and struggled to his knees. A crisp hand cupped Krennic's chin, and he whimpered as he was forced to look into Tarkin's steely blue eyes. "You have failed the Empire with your lack of conviction."

"I-I have failed the Empire with my lack of conviction," Krennic repeated, feeling as if Tarkin was using one of those ancient Force mind tricks. But this was different. Tarkin didn't need to utilize the Force. He was simply  _present._ If you were in close proximity with him, it would be as if his aura would automatically make you bend. 

But never Krennic.

That changed, here, tonight, when Krennic finally allowed the power of the other man to seep into him, to mold him at Tarkin's will. 

Krennic stood up, and pulled up the white dress pants, loud in the dimly lit room, up towards his waist. The burn in his ass was almost unbearable, as he had almost never been physically hurt like this before. Krennic turned around to leave before Tarkin could get a glimpse of the pink blooming on his gaunt yet rounded cheeks, but Tarkin stopped him.

"Pray, come back whenever you feel you have...failed," Tarkin spoke ever so slowly. The smirk dropped off earlier on at some point, vanished, and it was replaced with it's usual thin lipped disapproval. "And next time, please do try to act like an adult."

With those words, Krennic forced a curt nod, and he fled from the room, shame driving spikes through his armor of pride. He stumbled across hallways, meeting no one as he made his sloppy way back to his quarters. He collapsed on his bed, a sobbing mess. 

The anger was present and the shame was persistent.

But the guilt was gone.

As was it's pain.


End file.
